When a Viper Bites
by AngelSabar
Summary: The rewritten "The First Spark Of Silver On A Viper's Skin." ... John is kidnapped and meets someone he thought was dead. After being rescued life returns to normal...but a young woman has taken up the flat 221C and apparently is Mrs Hudson's niece. Can Sherlock solve the case of the new arrival or will she stump him forever? Rated M for safety. Thanks to my Beta TheDragonAunt :)


**When A Viper Bites - Prologue**

It had been a long time...almost three years in fact….since he had been involved in anything like this. John allowed his head to fall to his chest. His whole body ached from the beating he had taken. He really didn't know what he had done to deserve this; since Sherlock had left, John had taken up a job at the hospital, had several failed relationships and moved on as best he could. He thought he had left behind this life of violence and secrecy when he left 221B Baker Street. Evidently not.

A door swung open, John assumed it was the one he had been brought through, though being unconscious at the time, he wasn't sure.

"Dr John Watson." The voice was male and laced with madness "I hope you are enjoying our hospitality."

"What do you want from me?" John asked, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice. This was greeted by a manic giggle.

"Oh...oh dear John, I want nothing from you. Oh no, you were just my bait." Confusion sank into John's expression.

"Bait for what?"

"Not what...Doctor Watson...whom. The enigmatic Mister Sherlock Holmes, if you please." Now it was John's turn to laugh.

"Sherlock is dead. Has been for years." He realised that that was the first time he had spoken the name out loud since the 'incident'.

"Huh...you mean you don't know." The man, whose face was hidden in shadow, seemed genuinely surprised. "I expected more. Well, you poor, lonely, sad little man. I bring good news...Sherlock Holmes is not dead...not yet. Bring him in!"

He called the last sentence to the doorway, which then opened and two men entered, dragging a third between them.

"Well, I shall let you get...reacquainted, shall I?"

The mysterious man who had kidnapped John left, taking his cronies with him and leaving the good doctor alone with an unconscious companion.

It was dark in that room and John's head was swimming from the repetitive punches it had received, not to mention dehydration and hunger. He had no idea how long he had been there. Yet despite this, John was convinced the man on the floor before him was Sherlock Holmes. He would recognise those high cheekbones, pale skin and ridiculously long limbs anywhere. The next question was, how could he be alive after all this time?  
John considered what he would say when Sherlock awoke. This could have taken a few minutes or many hours, there was no concept of the passage of time in that room. Eventually the pile on the floor groaned and twitched.

"About time," John called. Sherlock turned to find the owner of the voice and John was left in no doubt that this was his three-year deceased flatmate, evidently not dead but in a horrendous condition anyway.

"John?" Sherlock croaked, barely able to drag himself to his knees, "John? Is that you? Really you?" John sighed and shifted slightly...no mean feat, with his hands shackled to the wall behind him.

"Yes." He was exhausted. He didn't have the energy to be angry or scared or even confused. He simply had to accept that Sherlock was alive and here, with him, in this hellhole.

"I didn't want to go." Sherlock's voice was low, barely audible and it held a wealth of emotion that John never thought his friend could experience.

"It doesn't matter. We'll talk about it later." If there is a later, John thought, sadly. He had had enough. He was nearly forty; he had been in wars, fought crime and settled into civilian life. He definitely did not want cuffing to a wall and beating up. Sherlock shuffled over to his only friend but, before he could begin talking, the mysterious man re-entered the room.

"Ah Mister Holmes, awake I see."

"Who are you?" Sherlock hissed. He tried to stand but his legs betrayed him, throwing him back to the floor.

"Oh I wouldn't move if I were you. There is a venom coursing through your veins. At the moment you feel dizzy and nauseous but soon your blood will clot in the main artery of your heart. Beautiful."

"Who...are...you?" This time it was John who almost shouted the question. He had just found Sherlock again. He couldn't just watch him die a second time.

"My name is Cobra...as far as you are concerned. And you are enjoying the hospitality of one of the most affluent gangs in London."

"The…The Three...Lions." Sherlock was suffering. His blood pressure had dropped dramatically and it felt like his was being eaten from the inside out. He was in agony and he guessed he had, what...30 minutes left to live.

"Let them go or I will shoot."

Cobra turned to face the doorway where a young woman stood, pointing a gun in his direction.

"I did wonder when you would turn up...Viper." He curled the word around his mouth, savouring the few syllables before releasing it into the room.

"I said, let them go."

"How did you get in here?"

Viper sashayed into the room.

"You are predictable dear. You're getting...rusty."

John was sure that no other human being could make 'rusty' sound seductive but, somehow, this Viper managed it.

"I just had to look in all the buildings The Three Lions had access to on this side of the Thames."

"This side?"

"Well yes of course darling. You were hardly going to carry an unconscious Sherlock Holmes further than you needed...laziness has always been a character flaw of yours, sweetie." Cobra's hand came up in a blur but the woman reacted and dodged the slap.

"Temper, temper."

"No matter. Sherlock is already under the influence of your magnificent drug."

Viper's eyes flashed to the dwindling figure of the great detective before she turned back to her old friend. Grabbing his shirt, she pulled him to her, crashing her lips against his. She put everything she had into that kiss; it was the most passionate embrace they had ever shared. Whilst still locked onto his mouth, one of her hands slid down to grab the hilt of a knife at her hip. Clutching it tightly, she plunged it into his side. She was pretty sure his eyes would have widened in pain, if they could have. However, with the paralytic lipstick she wore Cobra was unable to react as soon as his skin came into contact with hers. Dropping him like a stone she raced to Sherlock.

"No. NO. **." The drug had almost completed its work; she had only a few minutes to save him from death or - even worse for the consulting detective - brain damage. Wracking her brains, she flung Sherlock to the side and quickly began to meditate. The answer she was looking for was somewhere in her memory...time to find it.  
She had been working on a puff adder at the time...a member of the viperidae family. Its venom affected blood clotting and she had managed to make it synthetically. An agonising poison for anyone she wished to administer it to. Of course, she had to make an antivenin to administer too. One she could give when nothing else was available...blood. Her blood.

Rolling up her sleeve she made a small cut on her wrist.  
"Sherlock, drink this." He grumbled something uncooperative so she held his nose until he gasped for breath then she squeezed her blood into his mouth. He swallowed and she turned to look at John.

"Does he have anything I could catch? HIV…Hepatitis….anything?" John looked completely lost.

"No-o-o." It took all Sherlock's willpower to tell her but he sensed the urgency. Before he could fall into oblivion he felt a sharp pain in his arm. Suddenly, Viper's blood was leaking into his, mingling with his, spreading her own antivenin through his body. A distant part of her was distressed that now her poison would never work on Mr Holmes, or anyone he was around to help. He had the protection too. However, the vast majority of her was simply happy that her blood was working. Sherlock's pulse was gaining strength and regularity. It was working.

John had no idea how long the woman spent pouring her life source into Sherlock but he could see that she was losing too much.

"Stop, Viper, is that your name? Stop it. STOP it!" And indeed, she did stop. She tore a small strip of cloth from Sherlock's shirt and bandaged her wrist. It was red within seconds and John realised that she had not only created a small cut, she had opened a vein.

"Move to the right."

John obeyed. There was something about this woman that you had to obey. She raised her gun and a shot rang out. John froze in fear. She had shot him. She had bloody shot him. He felt cold fingers on his wrist and, when he dared to look, he realised that she hadn't shot him; she had freed him by shooting his shackles.

"Thank you."

She nodded.

"Grab his arm," she said and together they hauled Sherlock Holmes out past Cobra's prone body and into the sunlight. Surrounding the building were bodies, many bodies.

"They are alive, don't worry. Unconscious. Well, except him." They were next to a man whose torso had been sliced open. "He annoyed me."

It took almost half an hour before they reached a road where they could hail a cab. Viper gave John some money, nodded and promptly disappeared from view, leaving the doctor with bruises, questions and a very much alive Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
